


Love Bites

by LaFlashdrive



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaFlashdrive/pseuds/LaFlashdrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time she bites you, you feel surprised and you feel violated. Your hips jerk upward without your consent and afterwards you find a use for that five hundred count box of bandaids your dad sent you in the mail the week before. You are forced to tell him that he was right, that you did inevitably get hurt in Styria even though you’d promised him you knew how to take care of yourself and that you wouldn’t let that happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Bites

The first time she bites you, you feel surprised and you feel violated. Your hips jerk upward without your consent and afterwards you find a use for that five hundred count box of bandaids your dad sent you in the mail the week before. You are forced to tell him that he was right, that you did inevitably get hurt in Styria even though you’d promised him you knew how to take care of yourself and that you wouldn’t let that happen.

~*~

The second time she bites you, it isn’t you that is hurt. It is the anniversary of Ell’s death, made worse by the fact that Carmilla doesn’t actually know the day she died. The anniversary lasts a week because surely Carmilla’s mother hadn’t kept the girl longer than that, hadn’t tortured her in the underground depths of limestone caves for months on end like she did with some of the other girls. Carmilla refuses to believe that that prolonged imprisonment could have been an option for the girl she loved, so a week is all the time Carmilla allows herself to mourn.

It is a week of crying, a week of her curled up into your side even though she is the taller one of the two of you. It is a week of her sleeping in your bed and then you climbing into hers right after you get back from class because you figure you ought to save her the trouble of getting up and coming to you. It’s one of the only ways you can save her trouble. You can’t really do much else as she cries into your shoulder.

There is one other way for you to comfort her, and you perform this act as much as you can, as often as your body allows you during this week. You pull back your hair and offer her your neck because Carmilla can drown her sorrows in your blood the way she can’t in a glass of O-negative.

It is the vessel that matters, you realize. Your blood is the same as anyone else’s, yet Carmilla does not get drunk when she sips the spoils of the Silas blood drive. She does not slur her words or droop her eyelashes when LaFontaine brings her blood bags from the campus hospital the same way that she does now when she pulls away from your neck, glossy-eyed and lips stained red. You are top-shelf liquor of the highest prestige, and even though you may taste the same as everything else in the store, your brand is the most revered. Carmilla prefers the fact that you are Laura over the reality of how you taste on your tongue, and it’s sweet kind of. That, or unhealthy for her. But either way, drinking from you makes her forget about Ell. It stops the crying for a little while.

When she kisses you she tastes like blood and you don’t know if you are comforted or disturbed by the fact that it is your own blood you taste on her lips. It tastes, admittedly, kind of disgusting and way too metallic, like kissing a block of iron, but the way her lips touch yours with so much warmth and so much passion dilutes the bitter tang on your tongue and you always kiss her back with an open mouth.

~*~

The third time she bites you it is her birthday. You don’t know what the traditional present is for one’s 335th conceptual celebration, but you don’t think it is sex which is all Carmilla seems to want. You knit her a scarf with her initials in Slytherin colors, and you have Perry help you construct a birthday card out of some old construction paper and black lace. Carmilla says she likes the gift, and you can tell she does by the way she doesn’t take off the scarf all morning, but then at night she seems to appreciate a lack of clothes much more so and the scarf is one of the first things she takes off of herself before trying to take everything off of you.

You aren’t hesitant to sleep with her. You’ve done it a million times by now. It’s just that today is bad timing because her birthday happens to fall in the middle of your cycle. She doesn’t seem to understand your nervous, vague blabbering of “Carm, we can’t. I’m. You know. I _can’t_ ,” and when you finally spell it out to her, face as red as you’re afraid your thighs will be if you take off your underwear and all the panty-liner protection that comes with it, she understands even less so.

“Wow, it really is my birthday,” she purrs, burying her face in your hair and digging her hand further into your shorts. You can hear her smack her lips before saying, “Just what I wished for when I blew out my candles.”

Then you remember that she’s a vampire and of course she doesn’t care that you’re on your period. But suddenly you care even more now. Somehow this has never come up before and you’re self-conscious because, not only have you never had someone down there while you’re bleeding, you really can’t imagine what it will be like when the person going down on you is a vampire.

You think you’d be willing to try, to give it a shot just to see what it’s like, but your reserved acceptance is so lopsided by her eager anticipation that you feel like the two of you might fall over at any moment, collapse beneath each other unexpectedly. You don’t know if you’ll be able to get up if that happens.

You lay down to try to control the uncertainty of your emotions and the consent of the exchange, but it doesn’t really help even though you try desperately to convince yourself that it does. She kisses down your body, puts your mouth in so many places that the more times her tongue comes in contact with your skin, the harder it is for you to imagine it _there_. Yet she’s there before you can calm yourself. Her eyes are lidded, her fingers are at the waistband of your underwear, and her cheeks are pressed against the insides of your thighs where her lips are soon to follow. You can feel her fangs bulging from her upper lip as she kisses you there. She tries to make her sniffing as subtle as possible, but you can hear her intake of breath and you can feel her shudder between your legs, and you notice it all too well. She is just about to take off your underwear when you feel yourself shudder too, but your body is not shaking from arousal.

You tell her to stop and she does. She comes right back up to your face and even though her own displays signs of how worked up and how hungry she is, her head never descends down past your shoulders again that night and she apologizes profusely, assuring you she would never want to do something that would make you uncomfortable. 

You tell her that you feel much better now that she is on the same page as you and has backed off, and to show her how much better you actually really do feel now, you tell her you might try another time, another time when it isn’t so sudden and she isn’t so hungry. Because she is hungry. You can tell. You can tell in the way she kisses you, in the way she licks her lips as if they’re chapped so badly they’re bleeding and she’s desperate for even that small taste of her own blood. When you make out again and her breath comes in heavy, warm puffs against your lips and she subconsciously drifts closer and closer to your neck, you do not say no when she begs you, “please.”

The bite is firm, secure, and you feel safe because you’ve done this before. You are happy you were able to feed her, even if her wish of exactly how didn’t come entirely true. You kind of feel bad for disappointing her on her birthday, but nothing about Carmilla seems disappointed when she pulls away and pulls you so close to her that you think she is trying to make the two of you become one. The bed does not even seem small when you are this tightly pressed together. The edge of the bed is an ocean’s-length away, and the wrinkles in the sheets seem to rock like waves when you look at them.

You know Carmilla only got half the present she wanted. You can smell the sexual frustration radiating from her even with your human nose. You reach a hand below the covers to touch her, but she interrupts your hand with her own and holds it instead. She tells you that you don’t have to, that she just wants to hold you, and you don’t even realize how thankful you are for that release of obligation until your head is no longer swimming but drowning in the ocean of your bed. You rest your head against the yellow pillow beneath you to fall into the deepest sleep of your life with Carmilla awake and watching over you the entire night.

When you wake up, you almost think it had been your birthday instead.

~*~

The fourth time it happens is at Perry and LaFontaine’s wedding and you feel guilty because the day is supposed to be about them not about you, yet you find yourself dragging Carmilla away from the reception and into one of the secluded barns on the farm the happy couple rented out for their ceremony. Perry liked the unobstructed view of the sunset and LaFontaine liked all the horses and the farm animals. You were more thankful for the dark of the closed barn doors and the scratchy feeling of straw on the backs of your thighs as your dress rode up on the haystacks with Carmilla’s hands beneath the too-tight garment.

She fucks you like you’re hers because you are. You’ve been thinking about making it official for a while now, ever since Perry and LaFontaine announced their own engagement. Everyone has had weddings on the brain since then. You talk to Carmilla about it, and, as you expect, you cannot legally get married because legally she died over three hundred years ago and technically she does not exist now, not to any government census, anyway.

You ask her if there is any kind of traditional vampire wedding ceremony like you see sometimes in bad movies. You imagine it more like a ritual. There’s probably some kind of gathering of her clan and chanting and candles, but there is also definitely blood involved, you imagine. Yet Carmilla tells you that no such ceremony exists, that vampires do not get married, especially not to humans. Vampire-vampire relationships are much more informal, like unspoken contracts neither party has signed but neither party plans on breaking either. Carmilla knows couples that have been together longer than she has been alive and they have never once thought about marriage.

You do think about marriage, though, and Carmilla does, too. You want to get married, but you can’t, so you say fuck it. You tell Carmilla you’ll come up with your own vampire-mortal ritual wedding ceremony and apparently that ceremony involves Carmilla’s teeth grazing the skin above your heart and her fingers slipping deep between the crevice of your thighs. So many colors spot your vision as you cum with Carmilla simultaneously feeding against your breast that the rainbow of hues makes it a gay enough wedding for you. You call yourself married in the dark of some barn in the Austrian countryside on the same day that Perry and LaFontaine do.

When you tell them that, you fear you have crossed a boundary, stolen their thunder out from under them, but instead of getting upset, they think it’s cute. A lot of your anniversaries now involve double dates to restaurants and theatres and cinemas and planetariums before splitting up and going your separate ways to more intimate events with your respective partners later on in the night. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Carmilla puts her mouth to your chest on the same day every year after that. Her teeth become such an integral part of your skin that you feel empty when they’re not there. You lose track of how many times she has bitten you as quickly as you fell for her in the first place.

~*~

Carmilla bites you so often that feeding sessions blur into one another. Anniversaries and special occasions blend in your mind. You do not keep track of how many bites there are, but there is definitely a last bite.

You get sick. You don’t with what and you don’t know how, but none of that matters. You go to the hospital and the doctors keep you there for weeks. They run test after test, give you pill after pill, but you do not get better. You do not get better and you do not want to stick around and continue to try. You tell the doctors that you just want to go home. They advise against it, say that it would limit your time left even further, but they are wrong and only you know that. Leaving that hospital for home that last times means you finally have all the time left in the world.

You and Carmilla talked about this decades ago, about what would happen when this happened. She talked to you about tombstones and grave plots in different countries all around Europe with that sense of impending doom, impending mortality, in her voice and in her eyes, but you just gently reached for her arm and told her that you did not want to be buried because you did not want to die. She knew what you meant instantly and she looked at you with more love in her eyes than the day she had when you gave birth to your daughter. That day you gave her the best present of all and she promised you that you would not regret it, that she would make sure life as a vampire would not treat you as badly as it had treated her for so many centuries before she found you.

She promised that she would kill you.

She does.

She kills you before whatever illness you have can because she insists that you have to be murdered and that life itself cannot be the culprit of the crime. She carries you to your bed because you cannot walk there yourself and she wraps the blankets around both of you as she lies down on the mattress beside you.

You told her how you wanted to die long ago, how you did not want to pass at her hands but at her teeth. A quick death, a sudden, violent trauma, would never compare to the slow bliss of being drained of your blood drop by drop. You were conditioned to always derive pleasure from the act by now, no matter how much Carmilla drank or how hard you blacked out afterwards. You would enjoy it.

There was also the issue that Carmilla hadn’t done this before. If there was a chance, even just a small chance, that she would not be successful in bringing you back, you wanted to die in a way that you’d enjoy instead of with the pain of some unnamed disease ravaging your body. You could not think of a better way to die than for Carmilla to slowly drink your life away from you. At least you would be giving your essence to her instead of Death. If anyone deserved the final remnants of your soul, it was Carmilla, the woman who you’d spent your entire life beside and who you loved unconditionally no matter what.

Carmilla does what she is told.

The last time that Carmilla bites you is followed by the first time that you bite her back.


End file.
